


Classicalstuck!

by Kidcat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternate Universe - School, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M, Red Romance, all the characters get featured at some point, did I mention the viola jokes, if that sweetens the pot for anyone, more pairing as time goes on, mysterious mysteries, there will be viola jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kidcat/pseuds/Kidcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Sburb, one of the most prodigious music conservatories in the world. For years it has stood as an American powerhouse of musical skill and excellency.<br/>It is the place to  be for ambitious young musician looking to make it as anything in the world.<br/>It is definitely not the place for any of the following things:</p><p>A dorky boy who can only play well when he is alone, a sort-of Violist who is only here to show up is older brother, an obsessive prodigy searching for the a string of melody that everyone hears at one point in life, but no one can remember, or a maladjusted school janitor.</p><p>It is certainly not the place for awkward flings or subterfuge. </p><p>Under no circumstances, is it a place where anything out of the expected can happen.<br/>And that's final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classicalstuck!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is my first time writing fanfiction, so it may very well be not very good, but I'm trying. I hope no one is too ooc.  
> The inspiration for this AU comes from my father's experiences as professional violinist who was admitted early to a prodigious musical conservatory. I play the cello myself but only casually, however, I have always been immersed in classical music. As things grow more detailed on the technical/historical side of things I will be trying to keep it as accurate as possible, but I am in no way an expert.  
> \--I realize it is a bit odd for John to be in the Derse dorm, but it just worked out like that :/ 
> 
> Please enjoy this dumb little idea of mine! or don't, I'm not a cop.

John: Fly the coup 

The Sburb Conservatory of Music towered above the head of a one JOHN EGBERT, who is, coincidentally, also you. You draw in a deep breath, craning your neck to see the tip of the great old building. It hedges the street, looking too big for the narrow causeway, all old brick and arched windows. 

You look nervously to the blank face of your Dad and wonder for the utmost time, just why you are here. Why are you standing here with a suitcase clutched in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other, and why, or why, did you ever think you were good enough for this? 

It is enough to make you sick to the stomach. A heavy hand comes down on your shoulder, and you meet your father’s eyes, blue looking into blue.  
“Ready?” 

You nod as vigorously as you possibly can, and do your best to smile, show all your teeth. You aren’t even inside yet, gosh, get it together kid!  
“Yeah!” you say, and begin to climb up the ridicules marble stairs leading to the entryway. 

Sburb is a small school, housing 100 or so students (enough for a respectable, all school orchestra) with a few main buildings. Mansions really, most being built sometime in the late 1800’s. 

There is also a beautiful and oddly modern concert hall, but you understand that this was quite a new addition, and it had cost an arm and a leg. Or so you heard.  
When you get inside, the lobby is crowded with new students. You see that one or two are close to your age, but most are older. 

Before you could even begin to look around for help, a pretty young woman walks up to the two of you. Boy, she is more than a little pretty, actually. She has short, fashionably bobbed black hair that curls around her ears, a thin, delicate face, and deep green eyes. Her makeup is very elegant and well put together, in fact, those words well describe her whole person. 

“Hello,” she says, and you note dimly that she has a very nice voice. It takes a moment of slack jawed staring, but you also notice she is now looking at you strangely. Probably wondering if you have brain damage. Your face going red, you hurriedly say hi. 

“You must be John Egbert,” she begins, and turning to Dad adds “And you must be his father. My name is Kanaya Maryam, and I am a student here at Sburb. I am a voice major, one of the few ones here in fact, as the school focuses more on instruments. But I am getting off-topic. I’m here to show you to your room and make sure John is very well settled here.” 

Her way of speaking is very direct and careful. You confirm that you are indeed the man in question, and then you and Dad are lead down the hall to tour the main building. You will, as Kanaya explains, be doing a full tour of all important buildings that will culminate in the student housing building. You are pretty sure those are her exact words, actually. 

You can only stare about in awe. It really is a beautiful old building. You can’t help but imagine the wealthy socialites who used to live here, partying it up like they stepped straight out of The Great Gatsby. It’s enough to catch anybody a little off guard. 

Many of the rooms Kanaya shows you are studios and classrooms, but there is also a library. She shows you this one with a voice laced with pride. 

You find yourself craning your neck again as you look around the room at bookshelves that seem to go up for miles, stacked high with tomes relating to music history and theory. Kanaya leads you across the polished floor (you may have slipped a little on it) to a set of stone stairs that lead down to a heavy, locked oak door. 

“This is the entrance to the archives. We keep very valuable ancient records here, so it is not open to students without express permission.” she seems to be x-raying you as she says this.

Hey, who does she think you are? You aren’t about to try breaking into the forbidden archives, that would be a really stupid thing to do and totally not something that could happen in a story like this. 

“Judging on your overall appearance and demeanor, it may be some time before you are allowed access.”  
She does not sound contemptuous, it is as if she is stating a plain fact that anybody with half a brain could see. You find yourself blushing to the tips of your ears again, but duck your head before she can see. 

Next, you are lead outside and along the street where, reaching the river that separates the main faculty building from dorms and other things, she gestures towards the bridge leading to new concert hall, softly gleaming in the mid-morning sun. 

“I am afraid that we do not have the chance to explore the Skaian Memorial Hall, as we are under time constraints.” She glances over her shoulder at you with level green eyes, and yes, you are sure this time that she looks a little contemptuous! “And I believe it will be sometime before you have access to this as well.” 

“Hey!” you say, mouth falling open. Her dark lips quirk into a smile at your outburst, but she looks amused. 

“Do not take it too much to heart, John. It is the duty of us older students to give our younger classmates a difficult time.” 

You smile uneasily at this. She sweeps ahead of you and Dad, who, you notice, has barely said a word this whole time. That’s okay though--you know he feels very out of place in a setting like Sburb. Serious business and elitist music are worlds that don’t often collide. 

There is another old mansion full of studio space and a few impressive lecture halls, and also the cafeteria building. This one is pretty decked out and fancy, with the most healthy food choices you have seen in a long time at a school. 

She doesn’t let you go into the old church, but you think you would have liked to. You stare curiously at the elegant white building as you pass by. Stained glass windows depicting dying saints reflect in the blue of your eyes, and you think you hear a strain of organ music drifting through the boarded up door. It gives you the shivers, but Dad and Kanaya don’t seem to notice a thing, and that is downright creepy. 

You wonder why Sburb even owns the old thing at all if it is locked up and barred off from the main campus. And filled with ghosty music, apparently. But you are still intimidated by the pretty, concise voice major so you keep your fat mouth shut. 

Finally you reach the end of the line. That is to say, the dorm buildings. There aren’t many, just one for the boys and one of the girls, two old brownstones sitting next to each other. She tells you they are called Derse and Prospit. 

Swallowing, you follow Kanaya inside Derse and up the creaking stairs. You glance once or twice at your Dad, but he looks mild and polite as always. You’re suitcase slips in sweaty hands. Oh gosh, what happens if you have a weird room? Or don’t like your roommate?  
Why are you only considering these questions now? 

“You may have read in your dorm introduction email that you will be sharing a room with Dave Strider. He is a second year here at Sburb, and only a year old then you. I think that you will get along very well.”

“He, uhm, sounds like a cool guy,” you find yourself saying, as Kanaya pulls out a string of keys from the pocket in her dark coat, and opens the door to the room you will be calling home for the rest of the year. You are busy preparing yourself to try and make a good impression. 

The door swings open. It is a simple room, fairly clean for a dorm, housing two iron framed beds with hospital corners, two desks and closets, but no cool guy. You are disappointed and a bit relieved to find that your roommate must not have arrived yet.

You turn at the sound of someone delicately clearing their throat.  
Kanaya is shaking your Dad’s hand and saying something. 

“Thank you Mr. Egbert. I am sure that you and John would like to have a little private time before you part ways. If you need any help, please contact the help desk located in building 1, or make use of the telephone installed in the lobby downstairs.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Maryam. John will be just fine, won’t you, son?” he returns, shaking her hand back as if it is a precious piece of china, and turning to look at you. You nod, and with one last amused look at you, Kanaya leaves, closing the door behind her with a decisive click. 

You stare at Dad awkwardly as the moments tick by. You are not sure if he can read the emotions running across your face--confusion, nerves, the realization that you are going to be truly independent to yourself for the first time in your life--but then he steps forward and envelopes you in a hug. He smells of fatherly aftershaves and colognes, maybe a hint of baking, and you bite back the urge to cry like a little baby left all alone. 

“Be good, son.” he says, “To think, the next time I see you my little boy is going to be a concert pianist. I’m so proud of you. ” 

God, he sounds a little choked up himself. 

The sheer amount of fluff in the room by this point would be enough to suffocate a small cat. It certainly is enough for the boy on the roof.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. You aren’t allowed to be the boy on the roof yet, he is simply too cool for this early in the story. But as is unfortunately the case in our modern society, you have to be somebody... so... how about... 

 

Jake: Mop those floors, BITCH. 

Hey there, that is some mighty coarse language! Can we keep things a bit more civil? Come’on, we’re all gentleman here. 

Jake: Mop those floors with gentlemanly grace 

You are JAKE ENGLISH and the wooden mop handle is giving you splinters. The first day of your new job isn’t even over yet, so the only remaining conclusion is that you have reached a new low. You sigh heavily, tightening your grip. Splinters are one of those things that stand among sleeping on the floor and working two jobs as “character Builders,” and you’d like to think you are very aquatinted with those. 

Every 10 minutes or so, you can’t help but pause in your task to glance around the hallway with awe. You have never seen a place anything like it, and you consider yourself to be a pretty adventurous guy. Every line of the building is precise and elegant, and even in a simple hallway there are beautiful tall, arched windows and polished wood floors. It’s a veritable palace. 

You pick of the rusty old bucket and move a little further down the hallway. It’s ridiculous, but you keep feeling like you have to tread lightly across the shining floors, because every time you move in your heavy, practical work shoes, you feel like Godzilla. 

You pause as you round the corner, mouth going slack, fingers loosening around the bucket’s handle. You can hear music, but it is like unlike any music you have heard before. You remember listening to something that your grandmother called “mozart” once, a very long time ago, but the notes drifting from the old dusty cassette had seemed weak and unremarkable to you. 

This is different. It sweeps across you, seeming to encompass some feeling of excitement, of anticipation, that you cannot name. It is enough to make a man’s blood beat fast in his ears. 

You walk cautiously down the hall, following your ears. It brings back memories of the before, of nights spent quietly slinking through the jungle--but you try not to think about that anymore. 

You make a funny sight, an over-grown young man, stocky and well built yet tip- toeing on eggshells like a young child who does not want to be caught doing something bad. 

You find the source of the beautiful music in no time. It seems to be coming from one of the studio doors. Glancing around nervously, you peer into the glass window. 

A group of students appear to be the culprits. You watch in awe as they play, fingers dancing. A willowy blond-haired girl stands at the front, cradling a violin that flashes red in the overhead lighting. Grouped around her is another thin violinist, a short guy with a cello, and a cute, small, girl holding something that looks like the violins, but is a bit bigger. You are unsure what this one is, though. You are absolutely fascinated. You might have drooled a little on the glass in a most disgusting fashion, but you are too interested to care. 

Suddenly, the short boy lets out a cry of dismay, for no apparent reason you can discern, and the music falls down like a house of cards, leaving blinking and confused. 

The blond haired girl, looking annoyed, opens her mouth to say something, and then her eyes stray to the door. To your peeking face. 

You curse and spin around, heart beating fast. You were just looking, no harm in that. Can’t a man show a little interest in his workplace? But you can’t help it, you feel like you were somehow looking at something that you shouldn’t see, something not meant for eyes like yours.  
You would rather not have to explain yourself to the blond violinist lady--girl--whatever she was, so you pick up the mop and bucket again and abscond the hell away. 

In your haste you end up knocking over a white board. It clatters to the ground and scatters pens everywhere. Gadzooks! Annoyed with your clumsiness, you stoop to begin cleaning up, catching your tongue between your teeth. It would be just your luck to get fired on a first day. 

A foot comes out of nowhere and kicks one of the pens out of the way. You look up in shock, a slight growl rattling in your throat. But the young man is already brushing by you, gaze hidden under the most ridicules looking pair of pointy shades you have ever seen. He has a long black case in one hand and a sheaf of music in the other. He doesn’t seem to even notice your presence, or is in too much of a hurry to care. How rude! No real gentleman would dare act in such a manner, and you glare at the taller man’s retreating back as he hurries away. 

“Loutish cur,” you mutter, as you swing the white board back up. “Jerk!”  
Something slips under your foot, and you have to bring your arms out to stop yourself from tripping. The amount of near accidents you are having today is certainly not healthy. Still seething, you pick up the offending object. 

Its a single piece of paper, covered in spidery, hand drawn notation. Your mouth falls open. You don’t have much experience with this sort of things, but you are sure it’s sheet music. You would bet your life on it! The rude man must have dropped it when he sort of ran into you. You glance down the hallway, but of course he’s gone by now. You didn’t have much of a hope with the pace he was going. 

Sighing, you fold it up and tuck it into your pocket. You wonder if there is a lost in found here, or if you will have to track down the man yourself. To be honest, you would rather not. So lost and found it is. 

Giving your white board victim a final pat down, you continue on your way. At least all this excitement made you forget all about the day’s embarrassing incident.  
The sheet of music and glasses wearing cad are soon forgotten as well. 

 

Many hours later, you collapse against the stone wall by the bus stop. Twilight is falling, and you want nothing more then to collapse in your bed for a good pick me up.  
You are sweaty and tired, but by God, it feels good. You must admit that you are more then a little pleased with your new job. Physical labor (the best kind), and a nice soundtrack to go with it, what more could you ask for? You fumble in your pocket for your faculty buss pass, humming something under your breath. You can’t seem to get all these foreign melodies out of your head. Your hand brushes against the folded piece of music, and you frown. 

Someone coughs beside you, and you jump, probably getting a little more surprised then necessary. But you can’t help it, every since you left the island it has been hard to adjust to not having to use your gut instincts all the time. It’s hard and nobody understands. 

Oh. OH. Its the blond violinist from earlier. She is looking at you curiously. You quickly duck your head and look away, feeling your heart rate pick-up. Awkward silence abounds. 

“It was Tchaikovsky.” the words break the silence like a bomb shell.  
You can only gape at her in confusion, being forced to look at her. 

“Sorry, what?” 

She smiles at you, and you notice absently that she is wearing black lipstick.  
“The piece we were playing earlier. The one you were listening to this afternoon,” 

You blush, stammering: “My apologies, I didn’t mean to creep in on you like some sort of peeping tom. I must have looked quite a cad.” 

The girl laughs. She has a very youthful face. She might even be younger then you, you realize with a start. It was just that she had looked so much older, more significant, playing the violin. 

“I’m not angry,” she says, still smiling, “I thought I would tell you what it was so you could listen to it again. You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.” 

You begin to grin, feeling a bit more at ease.  
“I don’t think I know how to even spell that confusing jumble of a name,” You remark. 

“Here, let me everything down for you. My name is Rose Lalonde, and you are?” 

You take her proffered hand. It’s soft in your work-roughed palm.  
“Jake. Jake English.” 

You watch as she writes down the name in an elegant, curling script--which reminds you forcibly of how homely your own handwriting is in comparison. When she is finished, she hands it to you and it is tucked away into the pocket of your khakis, with your bus pass. 

“You must be a janitor,” she says thoughtfully, and you turn to see that she is watching you with a sly expression now on her face. 

“That’s me!” you say, trying to look rugged and charming. Her eyes light up, and she does this funny half smile thing. You can’t help but feel a little apprehensive. Just what are you getting yourself into? 

“Jake English, you are just the man I was looking for. I need your help.”


End file.
